


Whumptober Lite

by Crazy4Orcas, kiss_me_cassie



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Banter, Broken Bones, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Blood, Whumptober 2018, animal endangerment, mild violence, minor injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-07-24 10:45:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 15,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16173500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazy4Orcas/pseuds/Crazy4Orcas, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiss_me_cassie/pseuds/kiss_me_cassie
Summary: Our response to theWhumptoberprompts on tumblr.  We've opted for a "Lite" version!





	1. Stabbed

“I’m bleeding.”

“You call _that_ bleeding, Hawkeye?”

“I’m going to need stitches.”

“Hush, you big baby.”

“Natasha, you stabbed me.”

“It’s barely a scratch.”

“You stabbed me.”

“Just a little.”

“With a knife.”

“It was a small one. And it sold the cover.”

“You stabbed me.”

“Yes, we’ve established that. Can we move on?”


	2. Bloody Hands

He held out his hand to her and she reached for it with her good arm, grasping it and letting him pull her up out of the dusting of snow covering the alley. She immediately dropped his hand.

"You shouldn't trust me. I can still kill you, with or without the use of my arm."

"I know it," he said. He'd been watching her for months; he had no doubts about her abilities, lethal or otherwise. "But I also know you won't."

She cocked her head at him, puzzled. "Why?"

"Call it a hunch or intuition. Whatever. I think there's something inside you that wants saving - that is _worth_ saving - and you know that right now I'm your only hope."

She shook her head in denial and scoffed...

"I'm a Shakespearean tragedy. There's blood on my hands. You can't save me. No one can.”

She said it in in a wholly dispassionate and matter-of-fact tone, no self pity or disgust evident. Clint winced a bit, imagining how such thoughts had been ingrained in her.

"Everyone can be saved," he said.

"Not everyone."

"Everyone," he repeated. "Even you."

He reached for her hand again, dirty and cold and smeared with blood from the wound on her shoulder. "How about this? Maybe we forget about whether I can save you _or_ trust you and just concentrate on how you can trust me."


	3. Insomnia

“Clint,” she said, coming up behind him at the windows. The sky was clear and the stars seemed especially bright this late at night. “Come back to bed.”

Natasha ran her hands across his shoulders and down his back before pressing up against him, winding her arms around his waist. “How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

He sighed, pulling her hands up against his chest so he could bend his head and kiss her knuckles. "An hour? Five? Fifteen? Days? Does it matter?"

"You need to sleep," she whispered, kissing his shoulder.

"Can't." He sighed again and turned in her arms, burying his face in her hair and wrapping his arms around her. "I keep seeing blue and thinking…"

Her hands moved up to run through his hair. "Shhh."

He shuddered against her and she rubbed soothing circles across his back, whispering, “I know you don’t believe this, but it’ll be okay. You’ll be okay.”

Clint didn’t answer, just held her tighter. After long moments she felt him relax a little and led him over to the couch. They curled up together and Natasha pulled a soft blanket over them. She rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

“Find us something mindless to watch,” she told him as he turned on the TV and started flipping through the channels.

He stopped on an old black and white movie, then wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her even closer.

"Thanks," he mumbled, leaning in and pressing a kiss to her hair.

"For what?"

“Everything.”


	4. No, stop!

"No! Stop!"

"Not until you tell me."

"Stop poking me. Dammit, Clint, I'm going to break that finger."

"Natasha."

"No."

"Tash..."

"I promised Phil."

"And a promise to him is more important than what you have with me?”

"-----"

“Never mind, don't answer that."

"Good, because I wasn't going to."

“Then tell me.”

“I swear, Clint, if you poke me in that exact same spot one more time...”

"I'll poke you there a hundred more times if I need to in order for you to spill the beans."

"Assuming you're still alive by then."

"Pleeaaase?"

"Fine. But you have to swear _on your bow_ not to breathe a word to anyone."

" _On my bow_?!"

“On. Your. Bow.”

“Okay, I swear.”

"You need to mean it, Clint."

"Of course I mean it! You think I'd break my word to you? Or Phil? Okay, okay! I get it. I won't say a word."

"Phil and May are sleeping together."

"Phil and _May_? _Melinda_ May?"

"Oh my god, you're loud enough for the whole helicarrier to hear."

"But… Phil? And May? _With each other_?!"

"Yes."

"That's…. Ow! What was that for?"

"Making me tell you." 

"Natasha! No, stop!"


	5. Poisoned

“Bon appetit.”

Natasha glared at the plate Clint set down in front of her and shook her head. 

"What the hell is this?” she spat out.

He stood patiently beside the table. "This is the finest cuisine the safehouse had to offer.”

She arched a brow at him then tentatively pushed at the gelatinous lump of meat-like substance on the plate.

“And just what do you call this… _entree_?” she asked, disdain practically dripping from the word.

“Rotgut-alcohol braised canned meat product with boxed macaroni and an asparagus puree.”

“There was asparagus here?” Shock colored her tone.

“Yes. Canned. That’s why I pureed it. It didn’t really change the texture though.” Clint sat down with her at the rickety table and pushed the macaroni around on his plate. It was the least offensive item on the menu, but still completely unappetizing. 

His stomach growled and he really wished he wasn’t as hungry as he was. He knew Natasha had to be starving, too. There was nothing left to do but try and choke down some of the food, if you could call it that.

He picked up his glass of water. “Cheers.”

She grimaced but put on her best game face and raised her water glass to clink against his. “На здоровье.”

They each took small bites and Clint tried not to gag. He choked down several more bites and then pushed his plate away. “That’s it, I’m done.”

Natasha looked up from her plate. She hadn’t managed any more than he had. "Didn't you say there was some rotgut around here somewhere?"

“I did. But I’m not sure it’s any better tasting than our gourmet dinner.”

“It certainly can’t be any worse.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know I slaved over this meal,” he said with mock outrage. “You could at least be grateful.”

“I’ll be grateful if we don’t end up with food poisoning,” she muttered. Her grin took the sting out of her words. “Let’s at least get the taste of the asparagus puree out of our mouths.”

Clint nodded and got up to grab the unmarked bottle from the kitchen cabinet. He set a pair of glasses on the table and poured a couple fingers worth in each.

Natasha downed hers in one quick toss. “I want a _real_ home-cooked meal when we get back.”

Clint chuckled, nodded and tossed back his own glass. “Anything in particular?”

She didn't even hesitate before answering. “A thick, bloody steak and a heap of mashed potatoes as big as my head."

"Damn, Tash,” he laughed. “You sure know how to talk dirty to me.”

“Throw in a baked alaska and I’ll do more than _talk_ dirty to you.”

“You’ve got a deal,” he said and winked at her. “As long as this rotgut doesn’t poison us.”


	6. Betrayed

The blast, when it came, wasn't entirely unexpected but it still came as a shock when the remains of the crumbling wall came tumbling down around them. As the dust and rocks settled, Clint shook his head and tried to clear the ringing in his ears.

He took inventory and noted he probably had a cracked, if not broken, rib or two and he definitely had enough bruises that he'd be one big technicolor bruise within a couple of days. But nothing felt so bad that he had to seriously worry about it.

He looked around for Natasha, who'd taken the brunt of the debris, and frowned when he saw her. Even from ten feet away, he could see blood on her face and that one of her legs was twisted at an unusual angle. Definitely broken. Possibly worse. It was hard to tell with all the rubble around her.

"Nat?" he called frantically as he scrambled toward her, cold panic settling in his guts.

He swiped at the blood coming from a shallow gash on her temple, relieved to see that it was just barely oozing. “Come on, sweetheart, lemme know you’re okay.”

"I'm fine," she groaned. Her voice was strained and it wasn't hard to notice how she was gritting her teeth against the pain or the wince she made when he removed a couple of rocks from her ankle.

"Yeah, you look fine.” She rolled her eyes at the sarcasm in his tone.

"Clint…" 

"Nat…"

At that moment Steve's voice reached them over the comm. “Hawkeye? Widow?"

Clint was the one to answer. "We’re here, Cap."

"Status?"

He looked down at Natasha and his frown deepened. That leg was going to need some serious attention.

"Alive."

There was a pause and then Steve's voice again, calm but with a slightly urgent undertone. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Plenty. But for now, how about you send Stark out for a pick up? Natasha's gonna need transport to a medic."

Clint heard a brief exchange in the background and then Stark's voice on the comm. "Copy that, Legolas. Be there in ten." 

"Roger." 

With an audible sigh, Clint switched off the comm and gingerly settled himself down in the rubble next to Natasha, wrapping a careful arm around her shoulders as they waited.

Natasha wrinkled her nose at him.

"Traitor," she muttered. "I don't need Stark or a medic."

He shook his head at her. "Liar. You need both."

"You could have gotten me out of here."

That startled a chuckle out of him, which quickly turned to a groan, something Natasha immediately noticed. 

"How many?" she asked.

"Broken ribs? Definitely one, maybe two."

"Guess it's hard to feel betrayed when you're not in much better shape."

"Glad you’re seeing things my way."


	7. Kidnapped

"Where is she?" Clint demanded as he stormed into their apartment. He stalked into the living room and leaned over Natasha where she sat curled up in the corner of the couch reading. Frustration and anger radiated off him.

Natasha just arched an eyebrow. “Where is who?”

“Beautilda,” he snarled.

“Beautilda? Your bow?”

“Yes,” he snapped. “My bow. I was just down in the armory, wanted to do some test firing with that new taser arrow to get a better feel for the weight and _my bow is gone_.”

She marked her place in her book with her finger and calmly regarded him for a moment. “And just what makes you think I took it?”

He obviously heard something in her tone that warned him to tread carefully. He stood up straight, widened his stance as if preparing for a fight, crossed his arms over his chest, and scowled. “She’s a _her_ , not an _it_. And you’re the only one with the balls to touch her without my permission.”

“That may be true, but I didn’t touch Beautilda,” Natasha said as she set her book down and got to her feet. “Let’s go find out who bow-napped her and make them pay.”

Clint stopped her with a wide grin and a hand on her shoulder. “This is why you’re my favorite.”

She smiled at him and leaned up to give him a quick kiss. “You’re my favorite, too.”

\----------

“See,” Clint said, waving in the direction of the glaringly obvious empty spot in his section of the armory. “There’s Maybeaulline, Beaucille, Great Bows of Fire, Beausephine, and Bow Suede Shoes. But Beautilda is gone.”

Natasha made her way over to the space devoted to her weapons. Her guns and garrots were all where they should be; knives, batons, and taser disks, too. But there was a gap where her favorite pair of Widow’s Bites should have been.

“Looks like you’re not the only one who got hit.”

Clint came over and stood beside her. “Now _that_ was stupid. Kidnapping Beautilda is one thing, but who the hell would want to get on your bad side?”

“Well,” Natasha said. “I may be the only one with the balls to touch your bows without your permission, but who can be stunningly impulsive at times and mentioned wanting to do some weapon upgrades?”

“Stark?”

“Stark.”

“Oh, he’s gonna be so sorry he messed with us.”


	8. Fever

Everything hurt, even her eyelashes. Dull, throbbing pain radiated throughout her body and her muscles screamed in agony when she tried to move. And she was freezing. Cold, so very cold. She braced herself for the pain she knew was coming and blindly reached for the blanket she’d thrown off what seemed mere moments before when she’d been covered in sweat and burning up.

A strong, calloused hand caught hers and stopped her from moving.

“Sorry, Tash,” a familiar, masculine voice said. She knew that voice. She knew those callouses. Clint. But that shouldn’t have been possible, he was in Bogota. Recon for one of Fury’s pet projects. Or was it Wakanda, with Steve? Or Hong Kong, tracking down a lead for Coulson?

She couldn't quite remember, not now. But she definitely knew he shouldn't be here. He couldn't be. He was --

Her thoughts swirled and she had trouble grasping anything other than how cold she was; violent shivering caused pain to race up and down her limbs.

“Come on, Tash,” the voice said again. “Stay with me, just for another minute. I need you to drink this.”

A glass was pressed to her lips but she turned her head, refusing to drink.

“Tash, please. You gotta stay hydrated,” the voice pleaded with her. 

She wanted to listen to that voice, but it was so hard to focus. She concentrated on forcing her eyes open so she could see who was speaking and after a few false starts finally managed to lift her lids. But her vision swam and it was hard to make out more than just a blurry figure leaning over the bed. 

She felt the person brush her hair off her forehead and out of her eyes and she blinked several times until the figure finally came into focus. It didn't seem possible that he could be here, but she was certain it really was him, despite all her doubts.

“Clint?” she mumbled. She didn’t recognize her own voice, it was scratchy and hoarse, and her throat hurt and burned. 

“Yeah, sweetheart, it’s me,” Clint said. He ran a hand through her hair again and pressed a cool, gentle kiss to her temple.

She would have protested the ‘sweetheart’ but at the moment she was too relieved that he was actually there, real and not a fever-induced hallucination. 

"Cold," she murmured, closing her eyes again. "So cold."

“I know,” he replied. “But we gotta get your temperature down. Can you drink some water for me?”

“‘kay,” she said weakly. 

She tried to sit up a little, but couldn’t make her body cooperate. She was still so cold and she ached so much. She groaned and Clint wrapped an arm around her to help get her upright. Exhausted, even after such a small movement, she leaned against him; his body was warm and solid and unbelievably comforting.

He held the glass to her lips again and she forced down several sips. The cool water felt good on her burning throat, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep it down.

“Think you can handle meds?” Clint asked.

“Not sure,” she answered honestly. With a small moan, she shifted closer against him and closed her eyes. She was so tired.

“Oh, no Tash,” Clint said and shook her gently. “Meds first, then I’ll let you sleep, I promise.”

He helped her with the pills and to lay back down but kept her from grabbing for the blanket again. She tried to glare at him, but judging by the grimace on his face, she wasn’t entirely successful.

“You gonna be here when I wake up?”

“Absolutely.”

She closed her eyes and felt him brush another kiss across her temple. The gesture was so simple but it made her feel so incredibly safe and cherished.

“I love you,” she breathed.

His fingers stilled for the barest hint of a moment in her hair.

“I love you, too.”

She sighed and let herself drift off.


	9. Stranded

“We’re going down,” Clint said, voice calm and steady even as the alarms sounded and the Quinjet’s engines screamed in protest. “Brace for impact.”

Natasha tightened her harness and flipped the switch for the tracking beacon. Hopefully SHIELD or Stark would be able to pick up their location. She tried the comms again, but it was no use. The system had been fried by the odd pulse that had hit the Quinjet as they were flying over the Adirondacks on their way back to the compound.

Clint was frantically trying to keep them airborne but gravity was winning out. She was surprised he’d managed as long as he had.

The ground came rushing up at them through the front windscreen. Tree limbs battered the hull and splintered on impact with the jet. The last thing Natasha heard was a deafening crash as the Quinjet hit the forest floor and a loud grunt from Clint. Then everything went black.

\-----

The first thing Natasha noticed when she came to was the quiet.

“Dammit,” she muttered and smacked the console in front of her. But the tracking beacon remained quiet. No signal for SHIELD or Stark to follow.

She turned to check on Clint and was relieved to see him in one piece. His head was slumped forward on his chest, but he was breathing regularly and she didn’t see blood anywhere. She unhooked her harness and reached for him, tipping his head back to a more comfortable position and checking on his pulse. It was strong beneath her fingers.

He stirred and turned toward her with a groan as he opened his eyes. "Nat?"

"Welcome back," she said, relief warming her.

"What happened?" he asked and rubbed a hand over his face and through his hair.

"Exactly what you predicted: we went down," she said, rolling her shoulders to get some of the kinks out. "Oh, and full disclosure? The tracking beacon is as fried as the comms. It's going to be a while before we get out of here."

He closed his eyes and groaned again. "Great." Clint suddenly opened his eyes and focused on her. “You okay? And don’t bullshit me, I mean it.”

“I’m fine,” she answered. “Seriously. A little sore but fine.”

He narrowed his gaze but nodded. “Okay.”

“How are you feeling?” she asked. She couldn’t help herself and leaned in to press a quick kiss to his temple before resting her forehead against his.

He sighed. “Head hurts, but that’s about it. Like you, a little sore.”

Natasha gave herself a few more moments of comfort and then straightened. “Well, Hawkeye, let’s see what we’ve got to work with here.”

They took inventory and gathered their supplies in the back of the mangled jet. While the Quinjet had suffered some severe damage, it was still mostly intact and would provide them adequate shelter until they were found.

“They have got to start stocking these things with better emergency rations,” Clint grumbled as they settled down together. “I hate the beef stew MRE.”

“Stop whining,” Natasha chided, “it’s not that bad.”

She curled into his side and he wrapped an arm around her. He played with the ends of her hair as they relaxed into each other. She stroked her hand up and down his chest.

“You’d think they’d quit letting you fly these things,” Natasha teased. 

“Nah,” Clint replied, grinning at her. “Fury likes me too much.”

“Keep telling yourself that, hot shot.” 

"So the comms are fried and the beacon is useless. Any thoughts on how we can pass the time until SHIELD finds us by fanning out from our last known location? Could take them a while."

Natasha grinned back. "I've got a few. How about we start with Plan A and then move on from there?"

"I think I can work with that."


	10. Bruises

"Hey, I know it's getting cooler now that it's October but long sleeves? Really?" Clint plucked at the sleeve of Natasha’s fuzzy red sweater as he joined her at the little bistro table outside their favorite cafe. As he let go, he caught sight of a mottled mark on her wrist and set his coffee down harder than he anticipated, sloshing some over the lip of his cup.

“Natasha,” he said, blanching when he lifted the cuff a little higher to reveal an angry dark purple bruise, one about the same size and shape as his hand, circling her wrist. 

“It wasn’t really the cold I was bundling up for,” Natasha said dryly as Clint dropped her hand.

"Shit. Did I… Is that from…?" He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence.

"Two nights ago? Yes, yes it is," she said with a little wink as she tore a piece off of her muffin, popped it in her mouth, and washed it down with a sip of her tea.

"Dammit, Natasha,” Clint hissed. “You should have said something!"

"I thought I had," she said, rolling her eyes at him. "I believe it was something along the lines of ' _Oh god, yes, please! Harder! Faster! Fuck, that feels good_.'"

Clint frowned and sat back in his chair, arms crossed belligerently over his chest. "You know what I meant."

She set her tea down, leaned forward, and took his chin in her hand. Her tone was deadly serious when she spoke. "Don't you dare blame yourself, Clinton Francis Barton."

"Where else?" he demanded.

She kept stubbornly silent and went back to her muffin.

"Natasha."

"Clint."

"You know I'm going to find out eventually. Would you rather I find out now or later in bed?"

"Fine," she huffed. "Let's just say it's a good thing it's not beach weather because my hips have some interesting finger marks, too."

"Jesus," he swore and scrubbed his hands through his hair. "With my family history, you know things like this bother me. Why didn't you tell me I was hurting you?"

She sighed and offered him a soft smile. "Because you weren’t hurting me.”

He glared at her in disbelief.

“Well,” she amended, “no more than I wanted you to. And because it was consensual, willing, rough sex. I _wanted_ you to overpower me, Clint. I wanted you controlling me. And you know damn well we didn’t do anything both of us didn’t want and enjoy."

Clint sighed. "I know, but sometimes I forget my own strength. And sometimes _you_ forget that you're not actually indestructible."

Natasha snorted.

“Tash,” he said gently. “I just... I don’t _ever_ want to hurt you… more than you want.”

She reached across the table for his hand and laced their fingers together.

“You won’t,” she assured him then grinned. “I won’t let you.”

He picked up her hand and lightly traced his fingers over the livid bruise. It still bothered him, knowing he’d put such a vicious looking mark on her. He raised her wrist to his lips and placed a gentle kiss to her skin.

Her lips parted on a sigh and he noticed a subtle increase in her pulse where his mouth was still pressed against her bruised wrist.

“Let’s go home,” he said and gave her his best sexy smirk. “I feel like I need to make this up to you.”


	11. Hypothermia

Clint hated Murmansk. Hated it with a passion, for more reasons than he could count. But at the moment, he hated it for the cold. The bone chilling, snot-freezing cold. He’d dressed prepared for the frigid temperatures, but hadn’t counted on the sudden snow storm. Or the wind. Or the sleet.

The mission hadn't started out so badly. It should have been simple, really. No muss, no fuss, and likely no action either. Natasha would be in and out in no time and they’d be back at the safehouse before dark.

Yeah, it had all seemed easy enough. Until suddenly it wasn’t.

They’d solidified their plan for getting the shipping manifest and schedule for the weapons sale from the head of the local gun runners, then Nat had left to cozy up to the buyer. Clint had taken his rifle and scoped out the best vantage point to keep an eye on her.

The roof of the warehouse overlooking the docks provided a great view of the buyer's newly commissioned yacht, but offered absolutely no shelter from the increasingly bad weather.

Then the buyer had been late and they’d been left cooling their heels; Clint quite literally. The buyer insisted on Natasha taking a tour of the yacht and joining him for dinner onboard. Clint listened on the comms as the tour seemed to take an exceptionally long time, especially in the master stateroom. Natasha was able to deftly avoid the less than subtle passes their buyer kept making as he foolishly tried to get her into bed.

If only Clint's annoyance at the asshole’s behavior had been enough to keep him warm. 

He’d been up on the roof going on five and a half hours now. The chemical heating pads in his boots had worn out and he'd lost most of the feeling in his toes an hour ago. His fingers weren't in much better shape; he wasn't quite sure if he'd even be able to pull the trigger if push came to shove. He flexed his hands and tried to blow some warmth into them, but it didn’t do much good.

Then finally -- _finally_ \-- Natasha emerged from the yacht’s main cabin, made her way to her car, and gave him the signal that they were all clear and the mission was a success.

He let out a sharp whistle in acknowledgement and rolled out of position with a small groan. He stumbled a little but regained his balance before he went face first into the deepening snow. Fuck, but he was stiff. Stiff and freezing. After some fumbling, because he couldn't quite get his hands under control, he got his rifle packed up and secured in the pack on his shoulders and headed back to the safehouse.

The weather was getting even worse, the sleet coming down in sheets, and it was slow going making sure he wasn't spotted or followed as he covered his tracks on the way back. He was tempted to circle around and stop somewhere for hot coffee, but getting out of the storm and into warm, dry clothes held more appeal. Maybe he’d even be able to persuade Natasha to share some body heat with him.

"Jesus, Clint, what happened to you?" Natasha exclaimed as he fell through the door of the safehouse what seemed like hours later. "Clint?"

"C-c-can't f-f-feel my-my f-f-feet," he chattered. He tried to get his gloves off, but couldn’t seem to get his hands to work right. "T-t-too d-d-damn l-long on the-the r-r-roof."

Natasha pulled his gloves off for him and held his freezing hands. He knew it wasn’t possible, but it felt like her hands were burning him, they were so warm compared to his. He wanted to fall into her and soak up her warmth, but he couldn’t stop the shivering that wracked his body long enough to make his limbs cooperate.

"Warm shower. Now," Natasha commanded, stepping back and pulling his pack off his back before unzipping the parka and pulling it off his shoulders. "Then bed, wrapped in all the blankets we can find. Let's go."

He gave her a wan, but relieved smile. “Y-y-yessss m-ma’am-mmm.”


	12. Electrocution

"And here," Tony said with a flourish, revealing a slim, titanium arrow. "My newest baby. An improved mini-EMP that’ll knock out anything in a two to six foot radius, distance is adjustable. Gives you a more precise pulse. Lighter and more stable than the old one and in a much more compact package."

Clint took the arrow from him and whistled admiringly at how ridiculously light-weight and well built it was. He balanced it on the point of his index finger for a moment then spun it between his fingers a few times, stopped, and inspected the tip. It really was remarkably well made.

"How does it detonate?" Natasha asked from over his shoulder.

Tony practically bounced with pride. "That's the magic. It works with a remote trigger _or_ a timer. And you have the ability to switch from one to the other as needed."

Clint whistled again. "Sweet. When can I try it out?"

"Now," Tony said, grinning.

"Shouldn't we test this out at the range instead of in the lab?" Natasha suggested, eyeing both men critically. "You know, where there’s nothing dangerous lying around and there are myriad safety protocols in place?"

Clint shook his head and Stark made a face at her. 

"Nah. It'll be fine," Tony said, already clearing off one of the counters in the corner of his lab and moving a coffee maker into the middle to use as a target. "You don’t want to know what kinds of things I’ve tested down here."

"Yeah, Nat. It'll be fine," Clint chimed in, rolling his eyes at her. “What could go wrong?”

“What could go wrong, he says,” she muttered under her breath. She took a few steps back, and crossed her arms over her chest. "Fine, but I want it on record that I tried."

"Your concern has been duly noted, Agent Romanoff," Friday's disembodied voice intoned from the ceiling. 

Tony showed Clint how to adjust the pulse distance and set the timer on the detonator. Natasha took a couple more steps back, moving closer to the door.

Dum-E rolled over next to her and she noticed with a smirk that the robot was carrying a fire extinguisher.

Clint took careful aim and fired the arrow at the coffee maker. It hit dead on and Tony counted down. Nothing happened. Tony had already taken a couple steps closer to the counter when suddenly the EMP detonated. Blue light arced out of the coffee maker, raced a short distance along the wall, then up and across the ceiling. The overhead lights flickered and sizzled before exploding.

"Hey, look at that," Clint cackled and turned to Natasha. “See?”

"Great job, hotshot," Natasha said dryly, rushing over to where Tony had fallen to the floor. His arms and legs were twitching and he was drooling a little. "It somehow managed to hit Stark."

"Shit!" Clint ran up behind her as she knelt next to Tony. Dum-E had followed her with its fire extinguisher raised and was making a sad little whining noise. "Nat? Is he ok?"

She felt for for Tony's pulse and found it steady and sure. "As ok as a man who's basically been electrocuted can be."

Clint breathed out a sigh of relief. "Well, at least we know the arrow works now."


	13. "Stay."

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Clint watched as Natasha struggled to pry her eyes open. After several attempts she succeeded and he was rewarded with a very lopsided grin. At least he thought it was a grin; it could just as easily have been a grimace.

“Unngdh,” she muttered, struggling to make her mouth work under the fading effects of the anesthesia. She raised a hand to her face and tried to pull the nasal cannula from her nose. Clint intercepted her, took her hand and laced their fingers together.

“You really with me this time?” he asked, rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand.

She made another inarticulate noise then licked her lips and tried again, this time with more success.

“Liho needs cat food,” she mumbled as she blinked owlishly at him. “Don’t tell Fury.”

Clint chuckled softly to himself. At least she was stringing together full sentences this time. Last time she'd briefly woken up, all she'd uttered were a bunch of nonsensical sounds and a few completely unrelated words.

“Yeah,” Clint said. “That’s what I thought. You’re still a little bit out of it, babe.”

“Hmmmm,” she replied, her eyes closing as she dozed off again. Clint brushed her hair off her forehead then pressed a kiss to the back of the hand he was still holding. Tucking her hand gently back against her side, he settled back into the chair he’d pulled over next to her hospital bed and flipped on the tv with the volume turned down low.

Another ten or fifteen minutes passed before she stirred and pried her eyes open again. They were clearer and more alert than before, but he could still see the bewilderment in them.

“Clint?” she asked, voice tinged with confusion. “What happened? I feel terrible.”

“You started to wake up part way through the surgery and they had to amp up the drugs. Other than that, everything went well.”

“Surgery?” She reached for the nasal cannula but was stopped by the iv getting tangled up in her blanket.

“Yep,” he explained, untangling the iv and placing her arm under the blanket then tucking it snugly around her so she wouldn’t be able to reach for the cannula as easily. Clint smiled at the half-hearted, mostly lucid glare she directed at him when he finished. “You are now appendix free.”

She blinked in confusion at him. “I had an appendix?”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he said patiently. “And apparently it wasn’t a very good one.”

"Do I still have a pancreas?" she asked, scrunching up her nose.

He nodded in amusement. "As far as I know. This operation was just for your ruptured appendix."

"Oh." She licked her lips and swallowed a couple of times. “Thirsty.”

"I'll get you some water."

He stood up and took a step toward the table where there was a pitcher of water and a cup, but she stopped him by gripping his hand with surprising strength.

“Don’t go,” she said, a little panicked, but her voice was clear and she was making the most sense she had since waking up. “Stay. Please.”

“Okay,” he replied, soothingly. He leaned over her and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll stay as long as you want.”


	14. Torture

"You can't deny you want me," she purred, rubbing herself against him, brushing her full breasts across his chest.

It was impossible to lie; his erection was far too evident and he knew she could see his pulse racing in his neck. "So?"

"So," she said, leaning in closer and nuzzling his neck before licking along his bottom lip. He winced when she bit down sharply, sending a bolt of desire straight to his dick. "If you want me to, I can do things for you."

It was torture, pure torture, keeping his hands to himself. He so badly wanted to grab her hips, pull her in tighter against him, and grind against her until he came. But somehow he managed it. Even half-crazed with lust, he knew giving in to her machinations and blowing off his mission would be a bad idea. No matter how good it would feel in the moment, there'd be hell to pay afterwards.

He fisted his hands at his sides, gritted his teeth, and played along with her for a moment while he got his libido under control. Her spicy, musky perfume wasn’t helping. "What kinds of things?"

Jesus, was that strangled sound his voice?

She pouted prettily at him and he had to give her points for her performance. She was doing an amazing job play-acting. If he hadn’t seen her in action before, he might have fallen for it.

"I think you know what kind of things,” she said in a smoky, sultry voice that practically dripped with sex.

"In exchange for letting you get away with the data file."

It wasn't a question. 

"Yes." Her hands strayed to his fly and she looked up at him through hooded lashes. She licked her blood red lips and fiddled with his belt buckle. "I'll make it worth your while."

He put his hands over hers, stopping her from undoing the buckle. "Not tonight, sweetheart."

She stepped away from him, the femme fatale suddenly replaced by a deadly Black Widow.

"Shame," she said flatly. Her eyes were hard and cold. "We could have been good together. I'd even have made your death afterward quick and painless."

"And that's why the answer is no. But it was certainly a tempting offer.”


	15. Manhandling

Clint quickly made his way to the observation deck over the main gym, he didn’t want to be late. Settling himself comfortably in one of the creaky chairs, he tipped it backwards on its rear legs and propped his feet on the railing surrounding the deck. He popped open the lid on his trenta coffee and unwrapped one of the cheese danishes he'd brought. This wouldn’t be nearly as much fun on an empty stomach.

It was one of his favorite things about spending extended periods of time at HQ - watching Natasha and May take over the hand-to-hand combat training for new recruits. They weren’t at HQ at the same time very often, but when they were, it never ceased to entertain and amaze him how many overconfident assholes thought they would be able to get the best of the Black Widow or the Calvary.

Clint checked out the two dozen men and women assembled in neat rows next to the mats. Most looked to be your run-of-the-mill recruits, capable if a little starstruck at unexpectedly having to train with Natasha and May. But there were two or three who looked like trouble. They were easy to spot - the cocky, arrogant grins always gave them away.

He watched Natasha, down below him, carefully studying the group as she walked along the rows. She stopped in front of a muscle-bound young man with close-cropped brown hair and gestured for him to join her. He smirked and stepped out onto the mat, crossing his arms over his chest smugly as Natasha outlined the training exercise they were about to demonstrate.

Yeah, this one was gonna be a jackass and that was precisely why Natasha had chosen him for the first exercise. He was about to get his ass handed to him by one of the most formidable agents SHIELD had ever seen.

Clint took another sip of his coffee. He couldn't wait for the show to begin.

It started out normally enough. Natasha demonstrated the defensive moves in slow, measured steps and the recruit shadowed her movements. Clint was actually impressed that he seemed to have some skill; his moves were fluid and smooth.

But it all started to fall apart when Natasha finished the demonstration and asked the recruit to take up defense while she took the offense. They went through half a dozen maneuvers, and Clint could see the overconfidence building in the young man.

And then the fool thought he'd one up Natasha and go for his own take down instead of attempting the next evasive move. It wasn’t the stupidest attack Clint had ever seen. If he’d used those moves against any other opponent, he'd probably have gotten the job done. The problem was, his opponent was _Natasha_ and he had absolutely no clue what he was getting himself into.

Within seconds, Natasha had him face down on the mat, straddling him as she twisted one arm behind his back. She gripped his hair tightly and pulled his head back at an uncomfortable angle. Clint almost felt sorry for the guy; he’d been in similar positions himself often enough when he sparred with Natasha.

The recruit pounded on the mat to signal defeat and after a few agonizing moments, Natasha eased up on him. But she didn't let go; instead, she leaned down and whispered something in the the young man's ear, something that had him turning ashen and nodding quickly.

Clint took a huge bite of his danish and grinned. Damn, but he loved watching Natasha in action.

When she finally got up off the recruit and turned towards the rest of the class, they rewarded her with a smattering of applause to which she curtly nodded. May stepped up at that point and gave what Clint presumed was a short lecture on overconfidence in your abilities and underestimation of your opponent. 

It was a good lesson for the newbies to learn. But Clint wasn't paying much attention to May; he was busy watching the humiliated recruit scramble to his feet then slink back into place in line, all the while rolling his shoulders in obvious embarrassment and discomfort. 

He kinda felt for the guy. It was a hard pill to swallow, getting your ass handed to you by someone half your size.

“Is Natasha manhandling the new agents again?” Coulson asked from directly over his shoulder, startling Clint enough that he almost fell out of his chair.

“No more than usual,” Clint replied, regaining his composure. “That’s why you have her and May running the class, isn’t it?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Phil said in that semi-smug tone of his as he took a bite out of his own danish. "No idea at all."


	16. Bedridden

“I hate to be that person,” Natasha said as she helped Clint out of the wheelchair and into his bed, “but I told you it was a bad idea.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint replied with a poorly concealed groan of pain. “It seemed like the smart thing to do at the time. Who knew there’d be pigeons?”

He settled back on the pillows she’d piled up against the headboard and tried to get comfortable, groaning again as pain shot through his foot and lanced up his leg.

Natasha crossed her arms over her chest and raised an eyebrow at him. He ignored her and adjusted one of the pillows behind him but winced as the movement pulled at his sore shoulder.

“Clint.”

“Okay,” he said, sighing heavily. “I admit defeat, I need the painkillers.”

She reached out and ran a hand through his hair. 

“Thank you. I'll go get them from the kitchen,” she said, pushing the wheelchair out of the room ahead of her as she went.

Once she was gone, Clint carefully adjusted his casted leg and reached for the tv remote on the nightstand. He swore loudly when he knocked it off and couldn’t reach it where it had landed on the floor. 

“Dammit!”

Natasha rushed back to the bedroom and stopped short in the doorway when she saw him trying to get out of bed to retrieve it. 

“Don’t you dare get out of that bed,” she warned sternly, the ‘or else’ clear in her tone.

Clint scowled and slowly settled back against the pillows, his bruised back protesting the movement. “You know, this isn’t exactly what I pictured when I thought about you saying that.”

“I can only imagine,” she replied dryly, crossing the room to the bed. “But I mean it, Clint. The doctor said to keep all weight off that foot for at least a week.”

She waggled the water bottle she'd brought with her from the kitchen in front of him until he grabbed it and then she popped open the bottle of pain meds. 

“Do you want something to eat with these?" she asked as she held out two of the pills. "I know you usually get nauseated when you take them on an empty stomach.”

“I want to get my own damn snack,” he snapped mulishly. He took a deep breath to calm himself and then looked up at her. Her expression was blank but he could see minute traces of exasperation and maybe a little pity forming around her eyes. “Sorry.”

Natasha gingerly sat on the edge of the bed next to him. “I know you hate this, but that break is nothing to play around with.”

He blew out a breath. "Yeah, I get it. I really do."

She held out the pills again and he took them, downing them with a gulp of water. He leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to decide if he wanted something to munch on or not. The thought of puking with his bruised back made up his mind for him.

“Maybe I could handle some peanut butter,” he said. “I think there’s a jar in the cabinet.”

He heard Natasha snort then felt her weight leave the bed. She returned a few moments later and sat next to him again.

“I can’t believe I’m condoning this,” she said. 

He opened his eyes and took the jar of peanut butter and the spoon she handed him.

"Better?" she asked after he'd eaten a couple of spoonfuls.

Clint nodded. "Thanks. I know I can be a bit of an ass, but… I appreciate the help."

She leaned over and kissed his forehead. "Anytime, Hawkeye. Or should I call you Birdbrain from now on?"

"Ha-ha. Laugh it up, go ahead. But I'm telling you, that move was a thing of beauty until those pigeons flew off the roof. _A thing of beauty_."


	17. Drugged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: animal endangerment

Clint knelt down next to Lucky's food and water bowls and rattled them, hoping to get a glimmer of interest from him. But Lucky could barely lift his head, nevermind eat; he just stared at Clint with a sad, tired eye.

"C'mon. boy," Clint coaxed him, fruitlessly rattling the bowls again. "You need to eat, buddy. I know you're hurting, but you can't go without eating."

Lucky's only response was a whimper and Clint sighed. Lying down next to the pup, Clint threw an arm around him and scritched at his belly. Lucky whimpered again and pressed in closer to Clint's side.

It had been nearly a week now and they still didn't know what was wrong with him. When Lucky had first shown signs of lethargy, they'd taken him to the vet, but she hadn't been able to find anything definitive wrong with him. Not even when Natasha had given her a patented Black Widow glare.

Then the lethargy had gotten worse and Lucky's food intake had gone way down. It hadn’t been long before he even refused to go on his walks with Simone's kid Charlie, who Clint had asked to take Lucky out a few times a day when he was out of town.

It had gotten to the point that they'd finally asked Banner if he could work some sort of magic and do some tests to see what might be wrong with him. Nat had called from Banner's lab twenty minutes ago, sounding grim but promising she'd explain it all to him when she got back.

But in the meantime, Clint was going to continue to coax some food into Lucky. It was the least he could do.

\----

"He's been drugged," Natasha announced, storming into the kitchen and throwing her keys on the counter. "With enough phenobarbital to kill him within a week. Bruce said it's lucky we noticed his lethargy so soon."

“What the hell?” Clint scrambled to his feet but Lucky barely moved.

“I staked out his routine on my way back from Bruce's,” Natasha said. “Lucky’s routine. And on their walks, Charlie takes him right past that clinic near the grocery store. You know, where a lot of recovering addicts go? And I found traces of what turned out to be phenobarbital.”

"Is Lucky going to be okay?" Clint asked, reaching down to pat his head gently.

Natasha nodded. “He’ll be fine. Bruce wants to hook him up to an IV for fluids and he thinks he may need to pump his stomach, but it’s been at least a couple of days since Lucky got into any drugs, so probably not.”

"Good," Clint said, running a relieved hand through his hair. He paused and then squinted at Natasha. "What do we do once he's on the mend?"

"We find the bastards who’re dealing in our neighborhood and kick them out," Natasha said.

"Just like the tracksuits,” Clint said.

"Just like the tracksuits," Natasha agreed, deadly serious.


	18. Hostage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: animal endangerment

“Nat? I got your message, what’s going on?” Clint called out as he let himself into Natasha’s apartment. When he didn't get an immediate answer, he closed the door and set his gear bag down. “Nat?”

“In here,” she called from her bedroom. 

He entered the room and stopped short, whistling in appreciation at the sight before him.

“Damn, Natasha,” he said, taking in the array of weapons laid out. “You’re armed for bear.”

He watched as she strapped her SIG Sauer into one of her thigh holsters and then turned to him, hands on her hips.

“Did you bring your gear?”

“Of course,” he replied, gesturing towards her living room. “It's out there. What are we up against? Your message wasn’t clear.”

“Minimal security. Single hostage. Should be a quick in and out,” she said, her voice deadly serious.

“Hostage? What the hell? Who’s being held hostage?”

She strapped a second gun to her other thigh. “Liho.”

“Liho? Your cat?”

“She’s not my cat.”

“Natasha,” he said.

“She’s not,” Natasha insisted, scowling. “She just lives here. And apparently she got picked up by animal control this morning and is at the pound.”

“Can’t you just go get her?”

Natasha fixed a glare on him that had cowed some of the world’s worst criminals, but it didn’t have the power to faze him anymore.

“They’re closed for the holiday weekend. I wouldn’t be able to get her until Tuesday.”

“Nat -” he started, but she interrupted him.

“Clint.” Her tone was as hard as he’d ever heard it. “She’s in a _cage_. I’m not leaving her there over the weekend.”

“I’m not trying to talk you out of the rescue mission,” he said and stepped close to her. He took away the knife in her hand and put it back on the bed. "But maybe going armed to the gills isn't the way to go here. I mean, what are we really going to be up against? An overeager dachshund and a grumpy calico?"

"There could be hostiles," Natasha said mulishly.

"Yeah, the volunteer dog walker. I'm sure she's gonna put up a huge fight," Clint said. "She'll probably just be happy Liho has an owner who cares so much."

"She's not my --"

Clint sighed. "So you've said. About a hundred times. How about we try this instead: we call the shelter, persuade them to meet us there, and then go peacefully retrieve your… Liho?"

Natasha frowned but reluctantly agreed. "Fine. But if it doesn't work out your way, we're doing it mine."

"Deal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to the amazing Athena4lynn. Thinking about adopting a pet? Try your local shelter first! They have tons of animals waiting for a loving home.


	19. Exhaustion

When he found her, she was hanging from a chain hooked to the ceiling. They had given her enough slack to stand, but just barely. Music was blaring and the room was so frigid his breath came out in white puffs.

"Clint? Is that really you?” Her voice was weak and thready.

“It’s me,” Clint answered grimly as he made his way across the room. He was surprised Natasha didn’t have any obvious wounds; usually the cartel wasn’t overly cautious about treating their captives well.

“You sure?” she asked with a groan. “I haven't slept in so long … I can't figure out what's real and what's not."

“Yeah, babe, it’s really me.” Clint reached up and unlocked the chain holding her up. Her knees buckled but he managed to catch her before she crumpled to the floor.

“Don’t call me babe," she grumbled, leaning heavily against him.

“Sure," he agreed, holding her close for a moment before leading her out of the cell. "Let’s get the hell outta here, Tasha.”

“So tired.”

“I know,” he said. “But you can't sleep, not yet. Not until we get to the safehouse.”

They didn’t meet any resistance on their way out of the compound since Clint had quietly and efficiently taken care of her guards on his way in. But he hurried her along as fast as he could to avoid any stragglers he may have missed, practically dumping her into the backseat of the car once they were outside. 

Thankfully, he didn’t spot anyone tailing them as he sped away so he didn’t take as circuitous a route back to the safehouse as he normally would have. Once he was sure they hadn't been followed, he threw a look over his shoulder to check on Natasha, who was sprawled across the backseat, limbs akimbo and mouth open. He smiled, thinking of how she usually slept when she had their bed to herself.

When he finally got them to the safehouse, he cautiously surveyed the surrounding area but didn’t spot anything suspicious. But just to be on the safe side, he drew his sidearm as he got out of the car and listened to the sounds of the night as he did another visual sweep. He didn’t see or hear anything out of place and he lowered his gun, satisfied they hadn’t been followed and that the safehouse hadn't been compromised. He knew it was overkill, but Natasha wasn’t able to defend herself and he wasn’t willing to take any chances with her safety.

After another long moment, Clint holstered his weapon and opened the back door of the car. Over the years they’d pulled each other out of some ridiculously precarious situations, but they’d usually been at least semi-conscious for extraction. Natasha was nearly completely passed out.

“Come on, Tasha," he urged, sliding an arm behind her back and gently lifting her from the car. "Can you walk?"

"Aren’t we already walking?” She stumbled and Clint tucked her against him, practically dragging her along for several steps before thinking to hell with it and picking her up, princess style. It worried him more than it should have that she barely resisted.

“You don’t need to carry me,” she mumbled into his shoulder, her head lolling against him. “I can walk.”

Clint snorted but didn’t put her down. “I’m not carrying you; you are walking.”

“Ok, good.”

He picked up his pace. If she'd bought that blatant lie, she really was in bad shape.

He set her on her feet when they reached the door to the safehouse, wrapping her arm firmly around his shoulder so he could hold her securely against his side as he keyed the security code and got the door open.

“Just a couple more steps and we’re done. Just a couple more steps,” he said as he helped her over the threshold and to the couch. By the time he’d closed and locked the door, and reset the security system, she had laid down and was dropping off to sleep again.

“Oh, no, Nat,” he said and shook her lightly. “Let’s get you out of those clothes, cleaned up a bit, and into bed. Then you can sleep all you want, I promise.”

“I’m holding you to that,” she mumbled, letting him lift her from the couch.

He helped her into the bedroom where he sat her on the edge of the bed and she promptly flopped back, arms spread wide. Clint chuckled; looked like cleaning up a bit would have to wait. For now, he was just grateful that he had her back and she was safe. He spared a moment to let the relief flood through him then set to work efficiently stripping her down to her panties and pulling one of his t-shirts over her head. She was completely limp as he pulled her arms through the sleeves and tucked her under the thin blanket on the bed.

Brushing her hair away from her face, he pressed a kiss to her temple before straightening up. “Sleep well, Tash. Sleep well.”


	20. Concussion

Steve frowned as Clint groaned, closed his eyes, and sank down into the chair Steve had helped him stumble to; his obvious pain and lack of coordination made him wonder if he should call for reinforcements.

“Barton,” Steve said sharply to get Clint’s attention as he pulled out his phone. 

"What?" Clint asked, opening his eyes and blinking owlishly. 

Steve held up a hand, two fingers aloft. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“That depends Cap,” Clint replied. His words were slurred enough to worry Steve. “Which one of you is asking? ‘Cause one of you is holding up three fingers, one of you is holding up two, and the third you is flippin’ me the bird.”

Yeah, Clint was definitely concussed. Steve silently swore and sent a quick text message.

“Now you’ve done it, Cap,” Clint said as he rubbed his hands gingerly over his face and through his hair. He probed gently at what must have been a good sized goose egg on the back of his head.

“Done what?” Steve asked as he put the phone back in his pocket.

“I know you just texted Natasha. You do realize that we’ll both be in deep shit when she finds out what happened, right?”

Steve grinned, completely unrepentant. “I’m not the one who tried a quad twisting backflip off a second story balcony on a dare and knocked myself out.”

“Very true,” Clint agreed, but there was something beyond pain in his voice that had Steve pausing. In an entirely too smug tone, Clint continued, “You definitely didn’t try a quad twisting backflip off a second story balcony on a dare and knock yourself out, but you _did_ stand there and watch while _I_ tried a quad twisting backflip off a second story balcony on a dare and knocked myself out. How do you think she's gonna react to that?”

Steve blanched.

He was totally screwed.

\----------

The moment Natasha entered the room and walked over to him, Clint heaved a pathetic sigh, slumped in his chair, and closed his eyes. Steve didn’t believe for one instant that Natasha was fooled by his pitiful act, but it certainly was entertaining to see Clint try.

The look of resignation on Natasha’s face when Steve explained what had happened was enough to make him wish he’d just taken Clint to his room and dumped him there.

“How long was he out?” she asked Steve. Her serious tone was at odds with the delicate way she was probing the back of Clint’s head. 

“Just a couple of minutes. He came to pretty quickly when we got to him.”

She tilted Clint's head back so she could look at his eyes. “Did he actually make the quad twisting backflip?”

Steve had to chuckle. “He did. Just didn’t stick the landing so Tony claimed it didn’t count.”

“I’ll be having words with Tony later,” Clint interjected, leaning into her touch.

“I think I’ve got it from here, Steve,” Natasha said, shooting him a quick smirk. “Clint’s a pretty easy patient when all he wants to do is nap.”

“I’ll leave him to you then. Good luck.”

Steve turned just before he left the room to see Natasha running her hands gently through Clint’s hair while he wrapped his arms around her hips and pressed his face into her belly. The soft smile on her face was the gentlest Steve had ever seen on her and he felt a little twang of envy. 

However stupid Clint's acrobatics may have been, he certainly knew how to pick a partner.


	21. Harsh Climate

It was hot as balls as they trekked through the Colombian jungle on their way to the rendezvous site to meet up with May and the others. Hot enough that sweat dripped steadily down Clint’s forehead and into his eyes, making them sting. Pulling the bottom of his tank up, he wiped at his face with it and smirked at Natasha when he noticed her staring at his exposed abdomen. Her hot gaze was enough to bump up the temperature another couple of degrees and he felt a completely different part of his anatomy heat up.

“See something you like, Tasha?”

“I’d show you if it wasn’t so god awful hot,” she replied, swiping a hand across her own forehead. She fanned her shirt to try to get a bit of a breeze across her face. “How far out are we?”

“Shouldn’t be more than another hour, hour and a half,” Clint replied. 

He took a swig of water from his canteen and held it out to her. She took it and drank greedily then poured some of the cool water on her bandana and wiped at her neck and chest. She shot Clint a smirk while she unbuttoned and took off her linen shirt, leaving her in nothing but a plain tank top that clung enticingly to her damp skin.

“See something you like, Barton?” she asked, her lips twitching up in amusement.

"Always, Tash. Always."


	22. Friendly Fire

Hulk’s roar was deafening, even over the sound of the falling chunks of wall which they were sheltering behind. 

_Sheltering_. Clint refused to call it hiding.

“How long can he keep this up?” he asked, peering around the wall but quickly ducking back as another boulder sailed past them.

Natasha rolled her eyes and gave him that look that said he was an idiot.

"We need to find a way to calm him down."

"What about that trick Tony had you trying out the other day? The lullabye?"

Natasha rolled her eyes again. "You really think that's going to work?"

"Can't hurt to try," Clint said, shrugging. "'Cause at the rate he's going, this wall will be nothing but a pile of pebbles in another half hour."

Squaring her shoulders, she peeked around the wall and Clint saw her eyes narrow as she looked at Hulk and then back at the wall. He knew she was calculating how far away Banner was and what it would take to get to him and then make him focus his attention on her. 

He let her do her thing, and after a few moments, she finally turned back to him, looking fiercely determined. "Cover me and distract him with a couple of arrows if it looks like he's not amenable to some singing."

"Absolutely."

He watched as she darted out from their hiding - _sheltering_ \- place toward the spot Hulk stood, casually hurling rocks and other debris in their direction.

"Hey, Big Guy!" she shouted. "You got a minute?"

He had to give her credit, she didn't so much as flinch when Hulk roared at her, just gritted her teeth and held her ground while enduring the accompanying windstorm.

She shot a quick glance his way then held out her hands to Hulk in the universal signal for peace and started singing. Her voice was scratchy and hesitant at first, but gained strength after a few bars.

Hulk stopped hurling rocks and looked down at her with a puzzled expression.

Clint couldn't believe his eyes. Stark's cockamamy plan was actually working.

She braced herself for another roar and called up to him. "It's me, Natasha. Do you remember me?"

"Natasha friend?"

"Yes, I'm your friend. Me and my partner, Clint."

Clint slowly came out from behind the wall and gave a little wave. "Hey there, Big Guy."

Hulks eyebrows immediately snapped angrily together. "Shooty arrow guy."

Clint scratched at the back of his neck. "Uh, yeah, I guess?"

"Hulk not like shooty arrows."

Clint dove back behind the wall as another boulder sailed his way. Natasha joined him soon after, Hulk’s roar still ringing in their ears.

"Nice job, Hawkeye. I got him calm and talking and then you sent him back into a rage."

"Hey, how was I supposed to know he has such a low opinion of arrows?"


	23. Self-sacrifice

A massive explosion shook the ground while a thick cloud of smoke and debris suddenly blocked Natasha's view of the action at the other end of the street. 

"Status?" she asked over the comms, as she briskly made her way through the rubble towards where she'd last seen Stark fighting the enemy.

“They’ve got some kind of ion cannon,” Stark answered. “I’m going in closer to check it out.”

"Be careful," Natasha warned. But the words were barely out of her mouth before a second blast, almost as violent as the first, knocked her off her feet. She scrambled back up and immediately heard Steve's voice in her ear.

"Iron Man is down,” he reported, stress clear in his voice. He quickly followed up his announcement with a string of orders. “Thor, Hulk, take out that cannon. Widow, get Iron Man out of there. Hawkeye, cover Widow.”

"Copy," she replied and plunged through the lingering smoke until she found Stark, flat on his back amongst the rubble, motionless but with his arc reactor still glowing steadily. She heard Clint skid to a halt behind her as she knelt down next to Stark's armor-covered body.

"Stark?"

He raised a gloved hand and gave her a thumbs up. "Nngh."

"Are you mobile enough to get to cover?"

"Yhha," he mumbled, not sounding coherent enough to be talking, much less making a decision on his mobility. 

Fabulous. She blew a curl out of her eyes and looked up at Clint. "A little help, Hawkeye?"

"On it."

Together, they managed to drag Stark and his bulky suit to a sheltered alcove. The air was a little clearer there, since most of the dust and debris had settled. She could hear Hulk roaring down the street and then what sounded suspiciously like lightning destroying the enemy’s primary weapon. Good. They were making progress. With that more or less settled, she turned her attention back to Stark.

"What the hell were you thinking?" she asked as she hit the hidden latch on the suit’s face mask to pop it open. Tony blinked rapidly and she noticed his pupils were dilated and uneven. "Stark?"

"Best way," he slurred, trying to focus in on her face and failing. "Only one who could draw their fire…"

Natasha sighed. "Right, because Steve's shield couldn’t have withstood the blast. Or Hulk. Or Thor."

"Didn't wanna risk it. I had… best position, so they could reach... canon," he wheezed as he tried to sit up. 

Natasha gave him a less than gentle shove back down. Clint, standing over them with bow at the ready, shot him a disparaging look. "Idiot. You could have gotten yourself killed with that stunt."

"Didn't see you jumping in to take the hit, Hawkeye," Tony said, sounding stronger. Less like he needed immediate medical attention and more like his usual smart-ass self. Leave it to Clint to bring out the snark in him.

"Yeah, because unlike you, I know I'm not invincible and I don't put missions in jeopardy when there are other options."

"Enough, _Pot_ ," Natasha cut in sharply, glaring at Clint before turning back to Tony. " _Kettle_ , besides the concussion, any other injuries?"

He frowned uncertainly. "J? Diagnosis?"

"A full body scan indicates numerous contusions and a fractured rib," JARVIS’s voice came over their comms, staticy but still understandable.

"That'd explain the trouble sitting up part," Stark muttered.

“What’s the damage to the suit?” Clint asked.

"Minimal."

Before JARVIS could elaborate, Steve broke in on the comms. “How’s Stark?”

“He’ll live,” Natasha answered dryly.

“Good,” Steve replied, “because I have a lecture in mind on unnecessary self-sacrifice and how to be a team player lined up for after cleanup and debrief. And Stark is going to be my prime example.”

“Can I be excused due to injury?” Tony asked with a groan as he closed his eyes.

“ _No!_ ” came the very loud and definitive response from five different voices.


	24. Drowning

She wasn’t strong enough to fight off the hands holding her down. No matter how hard she struggled, she couldn’t raise her face out of the frigid water. And Natasha knew, was positive, that she had surpassed the two minute mark; they should have allowed her to take a breath by now.

The hand on the back of her head squeezed tighter and forced her face further into the tank. She redoubled her efforts, kicked out with her left leg and made contact with one of her trainers. The blow he struck to her kidney barely registered as she fought to get clear of the water.

Her internal clock, the one she’d had tortured into her, marked almost three minutes since the session had started and she began to feel panic licking at the edges of her consciousness. They were going to drown her; she would fail and they would finally manage to kill her.

She couldn’t help herself; she inhaled. Ice cold water flooded her mouth and nose and ran down her throat. Gagging, she made one last, desperate attempt to get her face above water by slamming her head back with all the force she could muster.

“Ooof!”

The gasping breath behind her and the burst of pain at the back of her head brought Natasha out of the nightmare.

She scrambled away from whomever was behind her and pressed her back against the bed's headboard, still half-immersed in the horrific dream. Fumbling for the bedside lamp, she finally managed to make contact with the switch and got it turned on, her eyes quickly scanning the bedroom.

“Clint?” she asked between huge gulps of air; she couldn’t seem to catch her breath.

“Yeah." He wasn’t as close as she expected; he was standing on the far side of the bed, rubbing at his chest. “You finally awake?”

“Yes." She rubbed gingerly at the back of her head. “How bad did I get you?”

“You hardly tapped me.” She glared at him and he immediately admitted the truth. “Ok, you nailed my chest pretty good. But it would have been worse if you hadn’t started twitching in your sleep.”

Natasha closed her eyes and concentrated on getting her breathing under control and relaxing her clenched fists. She felt the bed shift next to her and a light touch across the back of one hand.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asked softly.

She shook her head.

“Okay,” he said simply. They sat in silence for long moments, Natasha gradually relaxing. She reached for his hand and twined their fingers together. "Better now?"

"Yeah."

He shifted them until he was propped against the headboard and she was leaning into his side, his arm around her shoulders. "Think maybe you could get back to sleep?"

"Probably not,” she admitted and tucked her face into his neck. She breathed in his scent and felt herself relax fully. "Maybe we could watch a movie instead? Something light and frivolous."

“Sure,” he said and reached for the remote on the bedside table. They settled down again as the opening credits for ‘Spaceballs’ came on.

Natasha ran a cautious finger over the red mark on Clint’s chest. “Sorry about that.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Don’t worry about it.”


	25. Restraints

“Break time’s over, Hawkeye.” 

Clint sagged in relief against the chair he was chained to; Natasha’s voice was the sweetest thing he’d heard in the last few hours. So much better than Vlad the Incompetent's. Vlad, who couldn't even find the right pressure points to torture a prisoner. Not that Clint hadn't made a big show of screaming in pain and begging for mercy; he'd had to sell the part after all.

“Hey,” he replied, indignant as he turned his head to watch her approach. “Somebody had to play hostage so you could swoop in and save the day.”

She crossed the room with a confident, kickass swagger that was pure Black Widow and Clint spared a long moment to appreciate her feline grace and power. Fuck, but she was hot when she was in mission mode.

“You get the intel?” he asked, pulling his attention back to the matter at hand. 

Natasha stopped dead in her tracks and he could practically feel the heat of her glare burning between his shoulder blades. He instinctively ducked, but she still managed to lightly smack him on the back of the head.

He winced. “Sorry, that was a stupid question. Of course you got the intel.”

"It's on the way to Coulson as we speak," she said as she knelt to pick the locks on the shackles that bound his wrists.

"You didn't want to take it to him yourself?" he asked twisting around again to try and get a better look at her. “Bask in the glory of a job well done and all that jazz?”

She shrugged. "Didn't seem as important as rescuing my damsel in distress."

Clint snorted in amusement. “You know you’re my hero, right? The wind beneath my wings? There’s no love like your love?”

"Everything I do, I do it for you," she quipped, finally managing to pop the lock and remove his restraints.

Laughing, Clint rubbed the feeling back into his wrists. Vlad might've sucked at hitting pressure points, but his goons knew what they were doing. He’d mouthed off to them with several really spectacular insults and they'd been extra brutal when they’d buckled him into the shackles.

“You know Nat, I like it much better when you’re the one tying me up.”

“That’ll have to wait until after we debrief," she said, helping him out of the chair and leading him out of the holding cell he'd been in.

“Promises, promises.”

Within seconds, Natasha had him pressed up against the cold concrete wall, her hands cupping his face as her mouth hovered just a breath away from his. She grinned wolfishly at him. “That’s a guarantee, Barton.”


	26. Broken Ribs

"Gah! Lucky, no!" 

Clint leapt for the grill, but it was too late. Lucky's back end swiped it as he whizzed past and the grill tumbled over, hot coals and half-cooked meat flying all over the gravel roof. 

He stared down at the mess in dismay. His full rack of ribs had split into three pieces and was covered in dirt and grit. The sauce he’d spent an hour getting just right was splattered over the roof.

"Aw, Lucky. I've been looking forward to those all week."

Lucky didn’t look the least bit abashed as he skidded to a halt, ran back to the overturned grill, and made a play for the biggest chunk of ribs lying on the ground. Clint managed to snag his collar and kept him from snatching them up.

"Did I miss something, Barton?" Natasha drawled from the doorway to the rooftop. "I thought I'd been invited to a cookout." She held up a six-pack in one hand. "I even brought your favorite beer.”

Lucky gave up on trying to get to the ribs and Clint let him go so he could rush over to her, tail wagging madly.

"Change in plans," he sighed, looking down at the ruined feast at his feet. "Unless you want a busted rack of ribs covered in gravel?"

"As tempting as that sounds, I think I’ll have to turn it down.” She pulled a grease stained bag from behind her back and held it up in her other hand to avoid Lucky nabbing it as he danced around her legs. "How about some lukewarm burgers instead?"

He scowled at her. "How'd you know?"

"I figured it was a fifty-fifty shot and if we didn't eat them, the kids downstairs might enjoy them."

“You get fries too?” he asked as he grabbed Lucky’s collar again, since he'd given up on getting the burgers from Natasha and was making another try for the ruined ribs.

“Of course,” she smirked. “And there’s a death by chocolate in your fridge for dessert.”

His mouth watered, just thinking about it. “I love you.”

“I know.”


	27. “I can’t walk.”

“Jesus, Tasha. That was amazing. I'm never letting you leave this bed."

"That’s very unrealistic of you. After that sex marathon, we need to eat to replenish our strength. I’m not done with you yet."

"Really?"

"Really. But you'll never know what I have planned unless you feed me first."

"Ok, I’ll leave the bed, but just to go to the kitchen. You stay right here - I’ll bring food to you."

"Chocolate chip pancakes. With whipped cream and strawberries."

"Tall order, but I could be convinced… for a price."

"How high a price?"

"For food? I'll settle for a kiss."

"Good, because my legs are numb, I can’t walk as far as the kitchen for… other things."

“Numb, huh? Babe, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“If I didn’t feel so fantastic from that last orgasm, I’d object to the ‘babe.’”

“Don’t you mean the last two orgasms?”

“Well, if we're being honest, from the last several, but it's that final one that really put you over the top."

“I aim to please.”

“As always, your aim was flawless. Trust me.”


	28. Severe Illness

Clint woke from a fitful doze to find Natasha sitting on the side of the bed, a steaming mug of something that smelled vaguely of citrus on the bedside table. Vaguely, because damned if he could properly smell anything; he could barely breathe.

“Hey,” she said softly, carding a hand through his hair and scratching lightly at the base of his neck. “You feeling any better?”

“Ugh,” Clint replied as he forced himself to sit up and immediately started coughing. 

His chest was killing him. It would almost make the pain worth it if he could just cough something up and get some relief from the congestion. But this plague he'd caught refused to allow him even that much. He leaned into Natasha's touch as she rubbed his back until the coughing subsided.

“I’m dying," he said hoarsely, flopping back on the bed.

She snorted. “Very dramatic.”

“It’s true,” he wheezed through another bout of coughing. “Please put me out of my misery.”

“Not yet. You owe me dinner at Jean-Georges and tickets to _Hamilton_ from our last bet. And I intend to collect.”

“Wow, Nat." He pried one eye open and peered at her blearily. “Way to hit a guy when he’s down.”

“Since I know you’d never welch on a bet, I figured it would give you something to live for. Now, come on, sit up again,” she said and helped him settle against the headboard. “Drink this.”

She handed him the steaming mug and he tentatively took a sip. His sense of taste was only slightly better than his sense of smell right now, but he thought he detected something sweet in with the citrus. “Honey and lemon?”

“Yes. It’ll help with your throat and the congestion.”

He quirked an eyebrow and was surprised when a faint flush tinted her cheeks. “I, uh, may have checked with Bruce about a couple of things.”

A pleasant little spike of warmth spread through his chest… before it was drowned out by another fit of coughing. Natasha grabbed the mug from him before he could spill it and he slumped back. When he managed to stop hacking, he blindly reached for the mug and downed the honey and lemon mixture as fast as he could before another fit hit him. He hoped the drink worked miracles, and quickly.

“You need to get up,” Natasha said, giving his arm a slight tug. “I’ve got a warm bath ready for you. And I need to change the sheets on the bed.”

“Don’t wanna.”

“I know you don’t,” she answered as she brushed a hand across his forehead. Her cool hand felt good on his skin and he sighed. “But I’ve got the bathroom all steamed up, it’ll help with your cough.”

He blinked wearily at her. “Promise?”

“Yes, I promise.”

An hour later, he had to admit that, as usual, Natasha had been right.

She got him settled in the tub, cleaned him up, washed his hair, then spread some thick peppermint scented cream on his chest. That combined with the steam that filled the room eased his coughing. After a long soak where Natasha kept warming the water for him, he finally felt like something that might be semi-human.

She left him to relax in the bath and he heard her moving around in the bedroom, changing the sheets on the bed as she'd said earlier, he presumed.

He’d almost dozed off, head propped on a towel against the edge of the tub, when she came back. 

“Ok, Clint, you’re pruning. Time to get you back into bed.”

He was suddenly afraid she’d get him back in bed and then leave him to shake off this horrifically dreadful illness himself. He panicked, and before he could think better of it asked, “You gonna join me?”

“If you want me to.”

“Of course I want you to, you make me feel better. And right now you’re the only thing standing between me and certain death.”

She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his temple. “And you like to cuddle when you’re sick.”

“That too.”


	29. Seizure

"It wasn't just one bee, it was a whole swarm," Clint slurred as Natasha helped him through his apartment door.

She led him over to his couch. "Six counts as a swarm these days?"

"Yes," he said stubbornly as he sank down onto the worn cushions and closed his eyes. "And it was more than six. It was at least a dozen, probably more.” He felt her sit next him and asked, “Haven't you ever been swarmed by bees?"

"No."

"Not even as a kid?" He pried his eyes open so he could squint at her.

"They don't have bees in Siberia," she said with a small smirk.

"Liar," he snorted.

"Ok, they do, but do you honestly think the Red Room gave a damn if any of us suffered a bee sting?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

"They would’ve if you’d been attacked and had an allergic reaction like this."

"Or maybe they'd have left me to die."

He sighed and closed his eyes, fatigue overtaking him. "You had a shitty childhood, Tash."

"It was what it was." Her tone was flat and matter of fact as she got up.

“Tash?”

“I’ll be right back,” she said and disappeared down the hall. He heard the bathroom door open and the sound of her rummaging in the medicine cabinet. Moments later she was back and sitting next to him again.

He opened his eyes when he felt her light touch on the back of his hand where there were a couple of stings. She held up a tube of hydrocortisone for him to see and continued daubing it on the welts. He sighed in relief as some of the throbbing eased.

“You sure you didn’t get stung?” he asked. She shrugged as she moved on to the handful of welts on his arm. “You should have taken cover, should have left.”

“Clint.” Her voice was a mix of harsh and exasperated, but he didn't miss the fierce protectiveness in it as she added, "I wouldn't have left you to a swarm of bees. Even if you hadn't had that seizure."

She brushed a soft hand across his cheek and he relaxed back into the couch, knowing he'd be ok if he drifted off. "Thanks."

"For saying I wouldn't have left?"

"For actually, you know, not leaving me." He turned his head and, eyes still closed, kissed her palm. "Love you."

There was a pause and he tensed, thinking for a moment he'd overstepped his bounds. Then he felt her lips very lightly touch his forehead and he relaxed again. 

"Love you, too," she whispered.


	30. Caregiver

Clint and Natasha had just settled back on the couch, exhausted, when a soft mewling noise came from the corner of the room.

They both held their breath and waited. A second, louder mewl soon followed. Clint groaned and started to get up but Natasha stopped him with a hand on his arm, silently shaking her head. Surely Crystal was too exhausted to cry anymore. If they just stayed perfectly quiet and still, she'd settle back down again. She had to; they couldn’t keep this up.

But one beat passed, then another, and in moments she was howling again, her pitiful wails filling the room.

“Not again,” Clint sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. “She’s gotta run out of steam soon, doesn't she?”

She didn't.

After several minutes of crying, Natasha resigned herself to the fact that Crystal wasn’t going to settle down again without being comforted. With a sigh, she got up, crossed the room, and gently picked up the fussy baby. Rubbing a hand up and down the baby’s back, she bounced her a little then started to hum a soothing lullaby, surprised to realize that she even knew one.

A lot had surprised her in the past five hours; starting with when the baby’s grandfather had handed her over, grunted that Crystal was her name, and then stalked from the room. 

Baby Crystal had smiled a gummy, toothless grin, patted Natasha’s cheeks and then proceeded to giggle like crazy. Something foreign and a little painful had twinged in Natasha’s chest. She’d never been particularly fond of children, and had come to terms long ago with never having any of her own, but there was something about the way Crystal smiled at her. Something about her chubby cheeks and bright eyes that made Natasha wonder _what if …_

Clint, uncannily in tune with Natasha as always, had gently taken the baby from her to give her a moment and had tickled the little one under her chin, making her giggle even more. But within seconds she was fussing and reaching for Natasha again. 

Clint had chuckled and said with a smirk that Natasha was clearly the superior babysitter, especially after the Stark assignment.

“Laugh all you want, Barton,” Natasha said with a sly grin as she took the baby back, “But since I’m keeping her happy, you get to change all the dirty diapers.”

His smirk had disappeared pretty quickly.

Now, hours after that first, unexpected meeting, Crystal refused to be put down or left in her carrier. She only remained a sweet, happy baby as long as Natasha was holding her. Not even Clint was a sufficient substitute.

He could get her to smile, laugh, and clap her hands, and she’d let him hold her for a moment or two, but if if she was away from Natasha for more than a few minutes, she started to fuss and then cry in earnest.

This time was no exception. The second Natasha finished the lullabye and tried to hand her off to Clint, she started to whimper.

Clint scrubbed a hand through his hair and rubbed his eyes. “We’re putting in for a hefty combat bonus after this.”

Natasha quirked an eyebrow at him. “Excuse me? _We?_ ”

"Well, yeah," he said, squinting at her. "I'm helping… right?"

“What do you think, Crystal?” Natasha asked the baby in a sing-song voice. “Is Hawkeye helping?”

Clint tickled Crystal's chin but after offering him a quick, toothless smile, she hid her face in Natasha’s neck.

Natasha chuckled. “The Barton charm strikes again.”

“Hey,” he said, indignant. “That’s not quite how …” Clint’s protest was cut off when the door opened and Fury strode in. Natasha had never been more relieved to see him.

In what had to be the gentlest manner she’d ever seen in Fury, he took Crystal from her and tucked her against his chest, pressing a kiss to her head. A soft smile crossed his face and Natasha heard him whisper, “There’s my sunshine, the sweetest girl ever.”

The tenderness vanished as he looked up at Clint and Natasha, replaced with an oddly proud expression. “Agents. Well done.”

And with that, he collected Crystal’s things and turned to leave. It was one of the most surreal things either of them had ever seen - Fury, fully kitted out in his usual all black attire, long leather duster floating behind him, with a violently pink diaper bag hanging off one arm, fuzzy rainbow blanket trailing down his back, and an adorable drooling baby peeking over his shoulder as he stalked through the door to his private, secure parking area.

It crossed Natasha’s mind the she should snap a picture before the door closed so she'd have proof when she told the story later, but honestly, no one would ever believe her anyway.


	31. Showdown

"We're still friends, right?"

“Depends on how hard you hit me.”

As it turned out, she hit him _really_ hard, but she wasn't aiming for anything that could permanently injure or kill him, so Clint considered it a win. 

Although, when Wanda hit her with that ball of energy, he'd had a moment of very real fear that she'd stop pulling _her_ punches and take him down.

Luckily, she didn't, and before he knew it he wasn't fighting with Natasha anymore but shooting arrows at shit to make it explode and cause all kinds of distractions. Distractions which turned out to be instrumental in providing Steve and Barnes the time they needed to do their thing but ultimately led to him being shackled by the local military. Which really didn't bother him all that much, until he heard Natasha's voice.

"Hey, Hawkeye!" 

He turned, expecting to see pity or anger on her face. Instead, he found the calculating expression of the Black Widow at her very finest. He narrowed his eyes, not at all sure what she was up to.

"Yeah?"

"I'll send you a care package from paradise," she called, smirk firmly in place, and flipped him the bird over her shoulder as she turned and walked away.

What the fuck? Care package? Paradise?

Then it hit him.

The code they'd come up with back when he'd first encountered Thor - when he'd been stuck in New Mexico and she'd been babysitting Stark in LA.

At the time, it had seemed like the world was about to get amazingly stranger and infinitely more dangerous and they'd been painfully aware that there was no guarantee they'd be together if and when everything fell apart. They'd wanted to ensure they'd always be able to find each other in the chaos and had laid out some contingency plans for when the shit hit the fan. And ‘care package from paradise’ was the code for putting one of those plans into action.

Which meant, no matter what had transpired between them in the past few weeks or out on that tarmac, she was coming to get him. And she was planning on coming in armed to the gills, ready to move heaven and earth to rescue him.

A slow grin spread across his face, garnering him strange looks from Lang and Wilson, who were being frog-marched by the authorities alongside him. He ignored them.

"Yeah, be sure you do that, Widow," he called back to her as he let himself be led away.

His grin widened. Oh yeah, they were definitely still friends.


End file.
